Guatemala: A Culinary Melting Pot

I’ll admit it -- I’m a picky eater. In fact, I’m probably the pickiest person you’ll ever meet when it comes to food. As a child, during mealtimes my mother would set the timer and say, “If you’re not finished eating by the time this goes off, you’ll __(insert punishment here)__.”  

It didn’t work. Needless to say, I endured a lot of __(insert punishment here)__  just to avoid eating whatever was on my plate. I wasn't going to eat what I didn’t like. And there were a lot of things I didn’t like.

Tick-tick-tick-DING!

This is what I do to eggs when I have Sharpies nearby.

It’s a wonder I didn’t grow up with an eating disorder. (Does “Pain in the Ass Picky Eater” count as an eating disorder? Someone look it up in the DSM-IV book.) 

As an adult, I’m still picky. I don't like butter. I don't like sour cream. I don't like mushrooms. Or olives. Or liver. I don't like eggs, although I'll eat them here only because they are cheap and plentiful and I can draw on them first. 

I recall going to dinner with my dearest darling wonderful friend, Melissa, and ordering nachos. But, much like Sally from When Harry Met Sally, I wanted them my own way -- just chips and cheese. None of that nasty green guacamole (reminds me of The Exorcist), no sour cream (oooh, yucky), no tomatoes (too slimy), and definitely no jalapeños. When the waiter brought our food to the table, he announced what was in his hands, “Ok, who gets the regular nachos and who gets the boring nachos?”

These nachos are not for me.  More for you!

Boring nachos! Ohhh yeeeeah. Come to mama.

I respect those people who can go to a potluck lunch and try a little bit of everything. Mark my words, you will never hear me say, “Oooh! Someone made Eggplant Squash Succotash with Squid Nuggets and Peas! How interesting! I’ll take some of that!”

Basically, if I can't recognize it or name it, I'm not gonna eat it. Nope. No way. 

Eating mystery food is my version of hell.

Last week, I ran into my friend David and we went out to lunch. David is from Puerto Rico, a very talented jewelry/furniture/home designer and is wonderfully gay. He calls me “ChaCha.” It’s fun hanging out with him because if an attractive man catches our attention, I will ask, “Your team or mine?” I have to ask because I was born without the Gaydar gene. I only assume a man is gay if he comes up to me and introduces me to his partner. Or if he is on the tv show “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.” Or if he knows (and sings) a lot of show tunes. In high school one of my best friends, Robert, was gay and I had no clue. (In my defense, Robert didn't know he was gay, either, until he was in college and then it was all gay, all the time.) During high school Robert dated my friend Deborah, and I thought it was soooo cool of my mom to let Robert spend the night when I had slumber parties. She said she knew Robert was gay and nothing would happen if he spent the night. (And it’s true! Nothing ever happened! EVER!) My mom has a very accurate Gaydar. Heck, even my grandma knew Robert was gay! I was clueless.

Ahhh, but I digress...

Anyway, so David and I were trying to figure out where to eat and he said, “Oh, ChaCha! There’s this new Mediterranean place that is supposed to be excellent!” And a sort of grunting/gurgling sound escaped from my mouth – the sort of sound you’d make if you were playing poker and were working on a royal flush and you just picked up an ace from another suit and had to throw it out. Yeah, that kind of sound.

David looked at me and said, “What? You don’t like Mediterranean food?” And I ‘fessed up and said, “Ehhh, I've probably never tired it.” And then he said what people have been asking me my entire life:

“How do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it?”

Well, because... It sounds like it could be slimy. Or gooey. Or squishy. Or made of unfamiliar ingredients. Or have meat in it that I can’t identify.

Let’s face it, I had no good reason for not liking Mediterranean food. And David’s peer pressure was killing me. *sigh* Ok. Fiiiiiiiiine. Let’s go to that Mediterranean place.

*siiiiiiigh*

Here's a picture of Zoola's cool interior.

The place was called Zoola and it’s actually a hostel. A really COOL hostel! And a really CLEAN hostel, for anyone who is in the market for a place to stay in Antigua. It had these giant pieces of fabric covering the roof and these low low low tables and big pillows and straw mats on the floor. In other words, no regular tables and chairs, so plop your bootie on the floor and get comfie! I felt like at any minute, a live camel would come walking by. It was awesome!

Zoola is run by a brother and sister from Israel who cater to Israeli students who want to travel abroad. They also have another location in Guatemala near Lake Atitlan but they wanted to branch out in Antigua. (I’m glad they did!)

David asked if I liked falafel and I was like, "Nooo…? Well. Maybe? I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’ve never had it." Honestly, I had no clue what falafel was. All I knew was it had the word AWFUL in it. Then again, it also contains the word LAWFUL, which means my brother (who is a cop) would probably like it. Falafel sounded like something that would be covered in alfalfa and be made out of pygmy goat or alpaca or mashed-up grasshoppers or something. Regardless, David ordered the falafel for us. The waiter described it to me as “balls of meat with a dressing on top.” Needless to say, I was nervous. Balls of meat?! Dressing?! Oh, what food hell was this??? I started to sweat and began to plan what I’d be eating after my lunch with David was over.

Falafel! It's not awful! 

And when it arrived… I checked it out like a cautious dog circling a hissing cat. And then I took a bite... And... It was AWESOME! It was crunchy! I like crunchy things. It was flavorful! I like flavory things. It didn’t have too much dressing on top! I don’t like too much dressing. It had cucumbers! I like cucumbers. I’ve been craving it ever since. Score one for the picky eater! Woop-woop!

Interesting that my first falafel experience was in Guatemala with a man from Puerto Rico, served by people from Israel, while sitting on a straw mat. (No camels, however.) (But there was a very shy dog who lived at the hostel.) (She licked my nose when I met her.) 

It was a truly unique experience.

Mmmm... pizzaaaaaa...

On that note, I have to say my new favorite place to get pizza here is a tiny dive called “Gourmet Express” which sounds like a cheesy little fast food Chinese place, right? Nope. It’s run by a very opinionated German guy named Roland and his sweet Guatemalan wife, Ana Maria. And when I say it’s a “tiny dive” I really mean it – there are two tables in the whole place. I invited a few friends to meet for dinner one night – there were nine of us – and we took up the entire restaurant. Oooh, and now I’m craving pizza.

Nom-nom-nom.

So, if you're in Antigua and you want Mediterranean food, eat at the Israeli restaurant. If you want Italian food, go to the German guy’s place. Oh, and be sure to try Roland's German beer -- it's very strong and it'll make a man of you. JAWOHL! 

And until we meet again, stay thirsty (and hungry) my friends!

-Jennifer

Silence is golden... But I can't seem to shut up.

As a kid, I was taught that if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. But what if I don’t know what I’m saying? My Spanish is bad and I’ve never taken a lesson here (this could be the root of my problems) but I’m learning. In my own special way, I’m learning by picking things up on the streets. I am a stealthy Language Ninja – I sneak words from conversations when people don’t think I’m listening.

Unfortunately, ninjas are to be neither seen nor heard. Bummer.

Sooo, let’s just say that when I’m out and about and attempting to speak in Spanish, I tend to screw up. In words and in actions. And sometimes it’s a monumental mistake… Read and learn, my friends. Read and learn.

"I need a man..."

Some things are just too easy to screw up. For instance, I was talking to someone about being hungry and I honestly thought I was saying the right thing when I told her, "Tengo hombre." 

Needless to say, she laughed and said, "Oh, really?" 

That's when I knew I had screwed up. 

What I meant to say was "Tengo hambre." 

See how close they are? Rather than saying I was hungry, I said "I have a man." 

Hambre = Hunger    Hombre = Man

Sheesh, with words this similar, I am screwed. 

“Please, have a seat…”

When I was volunteering at the Puppy Palace thrift store, people donated all kinds of stuff to us. Some was lovely and definitely sellable, other stuff was absolute crap. Part of my job was to sift through the junk and find the diamonds in the rough. Shoes were a BIG hit at the store, especially if they came from the United States. I don’t know why, but telling a lady the shoes she was looking at were from an exotic faraway land called “The United States” made them more desirable. Yes ma'am, real live Americans wore those on U.S. soil and now you have the opportunity to literally walk in their shoes.

When people try on shoes, it is necessary to sit, right? Right. So we had a couple of chairs available for those who chose not to stand. Unfortunately, I was the one telling them to have a seat.

“Setenta! Por favor!” I would say and gesture to the chair.

And they would laugh.

And I would nod enthusiastically and smile my big friendly gringa smile while pointing at the chair like a model on “The Price is Right” and they would finally sit.

What I didn’t know was that I was telling them, “Seventy! Please!”

Setenta = Seventy    Sientate = Have a seat

So, perhaps they thought I was being friendly and telling them to take a load off by putting their seventy-pound bootie in the chair. *sigh*

Someone who heard this story told me to never learn Spanish because it was way more entertaining for her to hear stories of my screw-ups. So far, so good. It is my job to entertain the world.

“I’d like a breast…”

Yes, they even have good ol' Ronald McDonald in
the courtyard of the McDonald's here. 

Is it just me, or does it look like Ronald is checking out
that guy's butt? 

The McDonald’s here is unlike any other in the world. It’s built inside an oooold stone and brick house and there’s a fountain and a big outdoor courtyard with a view of the ruins of a colonial church and Agua Volcano. It has seating for 200 (maybe more?) and I like that there's no obnoxious sign with big yellow arches. 


They serve fried chicken as one of their daily specials. My friends Wendell & Eddie got me hooked on it and we will occasionally meet there for that healthy fried chicken. On our first trip there for McLunch, they told me to ask for a ‘pechuga’ which means I’d get a chicken breast, rather than a wimpy little leg or thigh. So I bellied on up to the counter and asked the nice young man for the Pollo McFrito and told him I wanted a pechuga. He looked at me confused and I wondered, “Did I say it right?” So I said it again and, without thinking, I put my hand on my boob. “Pechuuuugaaaa,” I said with all the sincerity in the world. And he nodded and walked away. There may have been tears in his eyes. I might have been his favorite customer of the day.

It took me about 3.1 seconds to realize I had just grabbed my McBoob in public and formed a McBond with the little McDude behind the counter that would last McForever.

Yikes! I guess it’s better than grabbing someone else’s boob to demonstrate ‘pechuga,’ but wow, what the hell is wrong with me? I usually only act like this in public if Mardi Gras beads are involved. (Kidding, Mom. Just kidding.)

“You're looking for...what???”

My sheets ended up being less ugly than I wanted. It was cold,
so toward the end of my search, I was going for something
that would be soft and warm. I came across these "kissy-kissy"
sheets made of t-shirt fabric. Ahhh. I'm kicking myself
for not getting a group photo so I could share the glory of all
of the fabulously ugly togas present that night. 

We had an “Ugly Toga Party” in January to go along with the theme of living in the Guatemalan version of Caesar’s Palace. Invitees were asked to make their togas from the ugliest sheets they could find at the pacas. (The pacas are like one giant garage sale with piles of clothes, shoes, household items, etc. underneath a roof patched together with corrugated metal and criss-crossed with electrical wires. A successful paca hunt will require digging into heaps of clothes and you never know what you’ll find. Items could include expensive vintage clothing, way cool concert t-shirts (rock on, Def Leppard), and sadly, many, many, many t-shirts from family reunions. Oh, and saddest of all is when you dig in and grab A PAIR OF DIRTY UNDERWEAR. Eeeeew! This is why it's always a good idea to carry hand sanitizer with you to the pacas.)

Ahhh, but I digress...

So, out I ventured to the pacas. I was determined to find the ugliest damn sheets in the world. I found many places that wanted waaay too much for nasty old sheets (my skin color doesn’t always help when it comes to prices and I can only haggle for so long before I say screeeew it). On one occasion, my friend Linda went with me and we found some Dora the Explorer sheets. Linda thought it would be very funny for me to call myself “Whore-ah the Explorer” and walk around the party telling the guys, “Hi, I’m Whore-Ah… Why don’t you explore me?” Tee-hee-hee. This would have been especially funny due to the fact that most of the men at the party were gay. But the Dora sheets were for a tiny bed and I wanted something huge and truly UGLY. Like, holy-cow-my-eyes-are-bleeding ugly.

Ok, so there I was at a booth in the paca with LOTS of blankets and sheets. It was run by a lovely Guatemalan woman and her husband. Her daughter (probably about 14) was there to help out. I smiled at them, they smiled at me and I said, “Yo quiero una feo sobrina para mi cama.” In my mind I had asked them for an ugly blanket for my bed.

But I was wrong. Sooo very, very, very WRONG.

Their smiles faded. Their eyes got large. Things got uncomfortable.

I said it again, this time using hand gestures to show a blanket lying on a bed. “Una sobriiiina…”

Unfortunately, what I really said was, “I want an ugly niece for my bed.”

Uh-oh. I kept smiling, unaware of my boo-boo. They looked horrified.

Finally, the daughter -- realizing I was an idiot -- said, “Una…sabana?” which means BLANKET. I slapped my forehead and said, “DUH! Si! SI! Una sabana!”

Sabana = Blanket   Sobrina = Niece

Oh, we all had a good laugh and thank goodness they didn’t tackle me to the ground and call the cops for being pervy.

“Oh, that poor injured horse…”

On more than one occasion, I have seen someone who just got their hair cut. And being the Spanishly-disabled person that I am, I screwed that up, too.

A girl brushing the cabello on
her caballo.

Our landlady got four inches cut off her hair and it looked really cute. When I saw her afterwards I said, “Oh, Anabela! Tu corte tu caballo! Que bonita!”

I thought I was commenting on the cuteness of her new haircut. WRONG.

She smiled and laughed and said, “Cabello. Gracias!”

I gave her that look that dogs give when they hear a strange noise. And then once again I slapped my hand against my forehead. Duhhhh.

I had told her she cut her HORSE and it was pretty.

Cabello = Hair    Caballo = Horse

Now, you have to give me credit here for trying, but come on! Who decided those two words should sound so similar? Anyone could make that mistake, and unfortunately for me, I keep making it. According to my Spanish, there are a lot of cut horses in Guatemala.

“It’s Ladies Night!”

This image has nothing to do with
Ladies Night, and yet, it popped up
when I did a search for "ladies night
& margaritas." I was intrigued,
so I felt compelled to include him
in this section. I think he's
blessing my margarita. Or maybe his
arm is up to notify the waiter that he'd
like to place an order. 

So there’s this new restaurant in town and to lure people in, they have Ladies Night on Thursdays. All the margaritas you can suck down from 6pm-10pm. Count me in! I’m a lady! (Despite what the 'pechuga' incident may indicate.)

My friends Linda and Daniel joined me. Daniel grumbled about paying $7 for his drinks when mine and Linda’s would be free. I told him Ladies Night was our revenge for not being able to pee standing up. He agreed. (He had to – he was outnumbered.) We suggested that  Daniel dress in drag the following and see if he got free booze. So far, he has decided not to do so, but if he ever does, you can bet I’ll tell you all about it. And I’ll include pictures.

Anyway, when we arrived at the restaurant, I asked the host, “Hoy es de noche de la mujer, si?” He looked at me like most Spanish-speaking people do when I talk out loud and eventually figured out what I was trying to say. He smiled, grabbed a couple of menus and we followed him. Tra-la-la-la-laaaa! Bring on the drinkies!

As he was showing us to our table, Linda laughed and said, “You just asked if it was The Night of the Woman!” Well, that was at least close, right? Sure, it could be the name of a horror movie (or a really bad porno) but I got the idea across. We came to drink. And drink we did.

Ah well, I tried. And if nothing else, I am entertaining.

And freakishly adorable.

Until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends!

-Jennifer

OH! One other thing I’ve learned since being here is that “mala” is the feminine version of “bad.” So even the name of this blog is no longer what I thought!

GuateJenniMalaFer  =  GuateJenniBADfer! Ooooh noooo!  {:-O

Surfing on water is *completely* different than surfing on land

Let's go surfin' now, everybody's learning how,
come on a safari with meeeeee...

It's true. I don't want to ruin anyone's aspirations of becoming an Olympic surfing champion, but no matter how good you are at land-surfing to the "Hawaii Five-0" theme song (which I will admit to doing every time the show comes on) once you add a board and water, it becomes very freakin' difficult.

Joel and I recently traveled to the coast. It was our first trip away from Antigua since... Well pre-car theft, I guess. So it's been around a year and a half. We decided we would get surf lessons, since the place we were staying prided itself on being an excellent place to surf. When in Rome, right? If they offered para-sailing, SCUBA diving or finger-painting, heck, I would've happily tried those things, too. But no, their specialty was surfing. It was time to hang eleven. (I have an extra toe.)

Jennifer, the Land-Surfing Champion

In typical Guatemalan fashion, our surf instructors were over an hour late (punctuality is not a strong trait here) so Joel and I spent the time doing what we do best -- land surfing. You stand on the board and balance yourself and WAH-LA! You're surfing.

The hotel loaned us rash guards (those nifty shirts surfers wear to keep from getting scraped by the surf boards) and we decided we looked like a couple of bad-asses who knew how to surf. We were kidding ourselves.

It's hard to carry a wide board when you
have short T-Rex arms.

And a word about rash guards. They are made of thin fabric and are tight for a reason. You don't want a bulky t-shirt flapping around and weighing you down. However, even the tightest rash guard will sometimes scrunch up and without knowing it, your tummy area is rubbing against the board. This happened to me and I nearly rubbed my entire belly button off. After a day of surfing, whenever I saw the guys at the hotel going out to surf without a rash guard all I could think was, "How do they still have nipples?" I mean, wow. The pain! My knees also got scraped, but wearing knee pads while surfing would've made me look like an uber-dork. If you want to know what it feels like, rub sandpaper all over your body. Then jump into a kiddie pool full of salt water. Enjoy the pain. While you're at it, drink some of the water and/or ingest it through your nose. And try to look cool doing it.

Let the fun begin!

Ok, so the lesson. The instructor told me the wider the board, the better your chances of standing up. I requested something large -- like a garage door -- but they handed me a bright blue beginner's board. And it was so wide, it was hard for me to carry with my stupidly short T-Rex arms. The actual lesson was...hmm. Well, let me just say that for me, it was completely unnecessary. Not only because my instructor, Carlos, didn't speak English, but also because I just sort of figured it out on my own. We didn't spend a lot of time on the beach practicing the 1-2-3-step move to get up on the board. I was eager to get in the water and do it. I'd have to say the best thing about having an instructor was that he helped me paddle my way out to the waves and kept me from getting a concussion when the board smacked into a wave.

Uhhh, sorry about the view, Carlos.

Carlos was a tiny waif of a guy. He took me out to waist-deep water and patted the board (my signal to hop on up there). Ok, no problem. He pushed me out to deeper water and that's when I realized poor Carlos had a terrific view of my not-so-terrific Whitey-McWhite ass. (If I am ever lost at sea or get stranded in a forest, do not send search teams during the day. Wait for nighttime. Send a plane. I will remove my clothes and the glow from my pasty white butt cheeks will act as a beacon, glowing in the night.)

Ahh, but I digress... 

Anyway, so there I was, wading out to sea with my butt in Carlos' face. Whenever a large wave would come our way, Carlos would weigh down the end of the board, causing me and the board to pop up over the wave. It was a lot of fun, but in hindsight, it's like voluntarily getting whiplash from snapping your neck against your spine. (But mostly it was fun.) Oh, and the force of the board against my chest made me wonder if I was going to break a boob. (Do boobs break? I don't really know. Mine seem to have survived.)

Without warning, Carlos spun me around to face the shore. It was like the first time I was handed the car keys in my Driver's Ed class. I was like, "Really? You think I'm ready for this? What if I kill someone?" But it was now or never.

The wave came. I scooched my toes to the end of the board and gripped the sides. Carlos gave the board a shove...

...and I was off!

Ten second later...

...I was face-first in the water!

I consumed a lot of salt water. Salt water is like a never-ending margarita, but not as much fun because there's no tequila or a fancy bendy straw included in the deal.

Yeah, that's me out there. It looks like I'm saying, "Cheers!" In reality, 
it was probably more like, "Oh, craaap! I'm about to wipe out again!"

Carlos and I did this about three times before I finally got the hang of that oh-so-important word: BALANCE. And another word that was deeply embedded in my brain: DETERMINATION. I was determined, come hell or high salty water, to stand up on that damn board. I had the eye of the tiger, the thrill of the fight. Yada-yada-yada. It got to the point where Carlos would turn me to face the shore and I'd growl, "Ok, wave... It's just you and me... And the board... And the sand..."

I don't have any photographic evidence, but there are witnesses and I'm sure they'd swear that I did stand up on the board and travel all the way to the shore. In fact, I did it many times. Once you get the feel for it, it's not too too too hard. A lot of it depends on the wave -- how long it lasts and if you catch it at just the right moment. Carlos walked me back to the shore to re-explain how to stand up, but gave up after he realized that no matter how many times he went over it, I was still going to do it my own way. (Smart man, that Carlos.)

Was I good at it? Oh, heck no. I'd compare my stance as more of a chunky cinder block on a board than anything sleek and graceful. If you could picture The Incredible Hulk on a surf board (minus the green skin) that would be me. I did it. I was bad at it, but I did it. I was so sore the next day. Even my armpits hurt. I realized this as I was trying to squish a lime down the throat of my beer bottle. Aching armpits? How is that possible? Ouch.

Joel with his very own bright blue beginner's board. 

Did I mention the stingrays and jellyfish? Yeah, the water was teeming with them. The owner of the hotel suggested we do the "Stingray Shuffle" when walking in the water. He said people at the hotel who have been stung by stingrays say "the pain makes you feel like you are dying." Sounds like fun! So shuffle I did. I don't know how to avoid a jellyfish...other than not go in the water with peanut butter. (Get it? Peanut butter and jellyfish?) HA!? (Did I mention I took in a lot of salt water?)  

Sunscreen is very important, especially for a self-proclaimed glow-in-the-dark person like myself. I was wearing SPF 50 but somehow a critical part of my body got missed or the sunscreen rubbed off. What part? My butt. Yep, I burned my cheeks and the area below my waist. It hurt to sleep at night. The two-hour ride in the un-air conditioned shuttle back to Antigua was loads of sweaty, butt-bouncing fun. I've been putting gobs of lotion on my skin ("it puts the lotion on its skin..." Sorry, that will only make sense if you've seen "Silence of the Lambs") and it's getting better. But now it's starting to itch. And peel. Ouch ouch ouch.

This little piggy went surfing... it's hard to tell, 
but my "ring finger" toe is swollen. 

Oh yeah, and I broke my toe while surfing. I made it all the way to the shore and I was dismounting and let's just say I didn't stick the landing. I landed funny and my foot curled under me... It was one of those things you do and think, "Man, that is really gonna hurt..." but I kept surfing. You can't do anything for a broken toe, so why gripe? The worst part was trying to put on my flip-flops afterwards. One of my toes refused to wiggle. Try putting on a flip-flop without wiggling your toes and see how hard it is.

Joel's land-surfing stance

Joel did better with the surfing because he had a lesson in Costa Rica on our honeymoon. He got up on the board and surfed, but I also saw him eat it a few times. He didn't have the luxury of guy like Carlos helping to push him out to the waves, so I'm sure he got pretty tired pretty fast. I think he was secretly amazed that I did as well as I did. Wah-wah-waaaaaaaah!

Other than surfing, we did a lot of swimming and walking on the beach. Even though it was Easter Week and everyone had time off from work, the beach was almost deserted, which was so nice. We found a lot of cool shells, including The Holy Grail of seashells -- a whole sand dollar. Woo-woo! And we didn't just find one. We found five. FIVE! I could open my own store called "Jen's Shell Shack" or "Everything's a Sand Dollar."

One of the five sand dollars we found 

And not to sound too gruesome, but every time I walk on a beach early in the morning to see what shells washed up overnight, I have a secret fear of finding a human hand or a severed head or some other body part. Am I the only one? Or should I stop watching all of those CSI shows on tv? Geeze, I'm a sick puppy.

Below you will find a few more pics from our three-day getaway. That's it for now. Thanks for reading my blog. And until we meet again, stay thirsty, my friends.

-Jennifer

P.S. I was just kidding about the extra toe. It's actually an extra finger. So when someone says, "Gimme five!" I say, "I'll do even better -- I'll give you six!" Finding gloves is a real problem for me.

P.P.S. Ok, I was kidding about the finger, too. (I'm a compulsive liar.)

Our collection of shells. Check out the FIVE sand dollars!
The pink shells (on the bottom right) reminded me of ears.

That sand dollar was biiiig. 

I didn't realize until after I took this picture that sand had
gotten in my camera and the lens wasn't open all the way.
But it looks pretty cool, eh?

We spent a lot of time in the hammocks. It's a shame the
pina coladas weren't very good. I had hopes of sitting in a hammock,
killing off many coladas. The ones at the hotel were expensive,
small, and tasted relatively rum-free. Bummer.

Joel and I found a new hotel with a great restaurant just down
the beach from ours. We ate there several times.
Here's Joel chilling in their porch swing. 

Waiting for the surf instructors to arrive... 

Joel in our "loft" hotel room. We shared this big open room
with seven other people. I got to hear strangers fart in their sleep. 

This surf board belongs to someone who knows
what they're doing. (See how short and skinny it is?)
No garage door here!

The end. You are free to do something else now. Thanks again for visiting!

I refuse to be haunted...

Our house has slightly less concrete than this place
(and way more statues) but the creepy feeling of
emptiness is strikingly similar. 

Ok, so I live in a really weird apartment. It's big, it's airy (for lack of a better term) and there are rooms that I just never find the need to enter. Yeah, I get it -- it's creeeeepy.

Some people have walked through the door and immediately asked if this place is haunted. This has happened more than once.

Really? Has anyone out there ever gone to someone's home and immediately blurted out, "Hey, I bet your house is haunted." I haven't. Ever. Not even on Halloween. Well, unless it was Halloween and I was having the pee scared out of me in a haunted house. Then it sorta goes without saying. 

"Why, yes, our house is haunted.
And we like it like that." 

I never went to Debutante School or attended the "Miss Manners Polite Conversational Topics Course," but come on. I guess I was taught from birth that it's a Romper Room No-No to accuse someone of living in a haunted house. Unless it's the Addams Family. It's just not cool, y'all.

But on that note, I have to admit...

I have heard things.
I have seen things.
And there's this inexplicable... breeze at times.

"'ello mate! Any idea where I can find some
tasty eucalyptus leaves? Even a ficus tree
would do for now. Oi!"

And there was one very early morning when I woke to the sound of something clawing its way up the bedroom wall. (Luckily, it was on the outside of the house.) (I hope.) I have no idea what it was, but that thing had claws. Perhaps it was just a wayward Koala, looking for a gum tree. In reality, it was probably just a big fat rat...or a Komodo Dragon. Or a tiger.

But really, I have to be rational here. Why would a ghost want to haunt me? I'm a relatively good person. I capture spiders and set them free instead of squashing them. I cheer for people to win on "The Price is Right." (But I will admit to being mildly pissed off when a contestant on "Wheel of Fortune" buys a vowel for no apparent reason.) I feed stray dogs. I smile at strangers. (But I also carry mace, just to be safe.) I say please and thank you. I'm not playing a role in a Patrick Swayze/Demi Moore movie from the 80's. There's no reason for a ghost to haunt me, so I refuse to be haunted. It's that simple. Bing-bang-boom.

So what do I do when I hear and see these things?

I blame the cat. 

*Not an actual picture of Lolo, but a good
representation of his hatred. 

Oh, did I mention there's a cat here named Lolo? He hates me with a cat-like vengeance. I don't know why. I've never done anything but be nice to him, but you know how cats are -- no matter how nice you are, some of them will look at you and say, "Go to hell. I hate you. You suck and I want to claw your eyes out," with their beady little cat eyes. There's a certain level of hatred reserved only for cats. They can hate for no good reason, and Lolo is living proof.

There's one teeny little problem with this theory... Lolo never comes in the house. But I'm sure being the sneaky little furball of evil that he is, Lolo has figured out a way to get in undiscovered. Yeah, that must be it. Bad kitty.

So if anyone would like to call "Ghost Hunters" to come down here and set up their infra-red cameras and super high-tech ghost-hunting paraphernalia, go for it. I'd be interested in seeing what they find. For all I know, this place is a veritable plethora (that's right, I know big words) of paranormal ghostyness and lost spirits. Sorta like a frat house for poltergeists.

But until I'm proven otherwise, I'll blame the cat.

Until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends.

P.S. BOO!